


Salvage

by scullywolf



Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [176]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Autopsy, F/M, Gen, Introspection, MSR, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullywolf/pseuds/scullywolf
Summary: Her “mental Mulder” went quiet for a while after her emotional breakdown on Mulder’s birthday. Maybe her subconscious mercifully recognized the need for self-preservation. In recent weeks, however, she has slowly and tentatively invited him back for brief conversations, this time on her terms.





	Salvage

_“Agent Doggett? Meet Curtis Delario. I guess he won’t be much help clearing any of this up.”_

It isn't always painful to think about Mulder. There are rare, lucky moments when she’s able to quell the hurt and the sadness just enough to regard his absence almost like a deployment.

A really, really unconventional deployment.

Her father spent a lot of time at sea when Dana was growing up. Tours as long as nine or ten months, sometimes. Missy got extremely upset the first year he couldn’t come home for Christmas, raging at the injustice of it and blaming the Navy for keeping him away from them. Dana can remember getting swept up in the fervor of her sister’s 10 year-old indignance, the two of them eventually marching into the kitchen and tearfully demanding that their mother call the Admiral and make him send Ahab’s ship home because it wasn’t _fair_.

Maggie calmly sat them down at the kitchen table and pulled up a chair between them, taking their hands in hers. “Your father chose this life,” she told them. “For better or worse, deployments are a fact of life in the Navy. It isn’t a matter of fairness, it simply _is_. Ships need sailors, and ships don’t know whether or not it is Christmas.”

Even at 8 years old, Dana knew it was men, not ships, who made decisions about when and where sailors were needed. And _men_ knew when it was Christmas. When she said as much, her mother squeezed her hand and sighed.

“I know you girls miss your father. I miss him, too. But he knew when he enlisted that there would be things he’d miss out on at home. Holidays, birthdays, first words and first steps. He and I both knew the sacrifices that his service would require, and we accepted them.”

“Well, no one ever asked us,” Missy pouted, and Maggie shook her head.

“No, they didn't. Because it wasn't your decision to make. Some things in this world are yours to decide, and some things are not.”

Is this really so different? For better or worse, Mulder is gone right now because he chose to be. Maybe it didn’t happen entirely on his terms, and maybe he didn’t fully realize what he was getting into, but from the note he left her in his journal, he went willingly. She can be angry with him for making that decision unilaterally -- and oh, she certainly is -- but just like with her father, all she can really do now is find ways to come to terms with a choice made by someone else.

Maintaining such a pragmatic view of the situation is, of course, easier said than done; human emotions are rarely brought to heel without a fight. But neither is it an impossible task, and when she is able to accomplish it, she takes advantage of the opportunity for healing that it provides.

When she was 10 or 11, Dana coped with missing her father by writing him letters. With Mulder, she has taken a somewhat different approach.

Her “mental Mulder” went quiet for a while after her emotional breakdown on Mulder’s birthday. Maybe her subconscious mercifully recognized the need for self-preservation. In recent weeks, however, she has slowly and tentatively invited him back for brief conversations, this time on her terms. Autopsies, oddly enough, have become her preferred venues for such conversations. Perhaps it’s because her mind is mostly occupied with the task at hand, so the small amount of her attention she allocates to mental Mulder cannot become overwhelming.

 _You know_ , she muses while beginning the Y-incision on Curtis Delario, _I hope I’m not losing my edge. It’s getting so much easier to approach these cases the way you would, and I’m starting to wonder what that will mean once you’re back._

 _You mean whether it will disrupt the balance of the Force to have us both on the same side in these investigations?_ His characteristic deadpan delivery would be offset by the mirth in his eyes, were he actually standing right here.

_I hope you’d agree that we have always been on the same side, even when our approaches differ. The question, really, becomes whether we will ultimately be as successful if we’re looking at a problem from fewer angles._

In her mind’s eye, he is leaning against the counter across the room, arms crossed casually over his chest. _Maybe we’ll solve cases even faster._

 _Some of them, maybe. Overall, though? I’m not so sure._ She sets down the scalpel and reaches for the rib cutter. _Even you have said you value the way our perspectives complement each other._

_I do, absolutely. But you’re not giving yourself enough credit. Even if you’re allowing yourself to be more open to extreme possibilities now, I don’t think that means you’ve lost the ability to be skeptical. Your perspective hasn’t changed. It’s simply broadened._

She cuts through Delario’s ribcage, considering. _Maybe you’re right_ , she concedes. _If nothing else, I certainly understand where you were coming from a lot better than I used to. I’d like to think that would make you happy._

_I’m proud as hell of you for it._

The illusion falters, her mental image flickering like a bad TV signal, because despite her ability to accurately imagine how Mulder’s half of the conversation might go, this is still all in her head. It feels more than a little self-indulgent to imbue this version of him with the exact words she wants to hear. Even if she didn’t consciously put those words in his mouth, it is enough to break the spell, pulling her out of the moment like a clunky passage in a novel.

She shakes her head, turning all of her focus to the removal of the chest plate and initial in situ exam, letting her mental Mulder fade away entirely for the time being. Observing the internal bleeding that seems to have occurred in between the car crash and the time of death, she makes a note as to the initial COD hypothesis. 

“Moderate internal bleeding, likely resulting from the impact, continued for some time before cessation of cardiac activity,” she says aloud into the voice recorder. “Extent of internal damage is not sufficiently severe to point to the crash itself as being the cause of death.” She looks toward Delario’s head and the wounds there. 

Scully has been quietly formulating a theory ever since she saw the footprints in the asphalt at the crash scene. It is still somewhat shocking how easy it’s been, these past few cases, to simply start from a place of belief in the extreme. Then again, maybe it is just that her definition of “extreme” has evolved. Maybe her mental Mulder was right about her broadened perspective. When she takes into account the full spectrum of her experience, everything she has seen, impossibility feels less and less like a concrete and absolute concept. If a man who eats livers and hibernates for 30 years at a time can exist in this world, why not one who can see through walls? If she accepts the reality of a man who can regenerate himself by consuming cancerous tissue, how can she reject out of hand the mere possibility that what they’re looking for in this case is someone who can take on a speeding car and win?

In accepting that possibility, it is not much of a leap at all to imagine that such a man might be able to inflict, with his fingers, the five large puncture wounds in Delario’s face. Considering how even a year ago she would probably have scoffed at the very notion of such a thing, maybe it is not so unrealistic to think that Mulder really would be proud to see her now. The idea spreads through her with a comforting warmth.

The door to the morgue swings open, and she looks up to see a young man in scrubs walking in. “Doctor Scully? I’m Jason Roberts, the ME’s assistant here. I’ve been instructed to provide whatever support you need on this case.”

She nods, mildly impressed. Cooperation and support from the local ME’s office is not unheard of, but it’s certainly rare enough that she doesn’t expect it.

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts. Let me bring you up to speed.”


End file.
